She had already reached it when the reporter caught up with her. ‘So, a murder inquiry, Inspector Wheeler – any comment?’

‘You know better than to ask for anything at this point, Grim; there’ll be an official statement later and if you’re really lucky Stewart will throw you a press conference by mid-week.’

‘Aye but is it gang-related? It must be, surely? Drugs? A turf war? What’s your take on it?’

‘See the above answer.’

‘Got anything to do with Maurice Mason being released?’ he persisted. ‘Christ sake hen, gimme something.’

She smiled.

‘Come on, eh? Man needs to make a living here. Give me a break, I’m only doing my job.’

‘Well, okay Grim,’ she stopped and turned towards him, ‘but you first. You tell me who called you about this, who’s giving you the heads up on these cases?’

Grim gave her a sly smile. ‘You know I cannae reveal my sources hen. It wouldn’t be professional.’

‘That right?’ she asked, holding open the station door to let Ross go inside.

‘Aye,’ Grim made to follow her, ‘but maybe we could have a wee chat, off the record like?’

Wheeler walked into the station and slammed the door, heard Grim curse her. Shrugged, ‘Let the ugly wee runt get soaked.’

‘Still but,’ Ross stood beside her, shaking his head like a dog who’d just returned from a walk in the rain.

She stood beside him, the rain drops from her boots leaking onto the cracked linoleum. ‘I know, I know.’

‘Mason,’ said Ross.

Tommy Cunningham sat behind the desk. ‘That bastard got out early.’

‘Aye, he did, TC,’ she agreed. ‘I wonder what he’ll be up to now he no longer has his own rent-a-thug empire.’

Cunningham scowled. ‘He’ll be up to his old tricks again.’

She walked to the desk and was signing the pool car back in before she continued, ‘Mason gets released from Barlinnie and James Gilmore gets battered to death in what was his territory. We already know Mason expresses himself best with his knuckles.’

‘Who’s Mason got history with?’ Ross continued. ‘The Tenant clan? McGregor’s lot? Or a freelancer, maybe Andy Doyle or Roddy Jamieson?’

‘Mason’s always been a freelancer, can’t seem to get on with folk. Saying that, he’s probably got history with half the freelance thugs in the city, Jamieson and Doyle included.’

‘Doyle’s the most ambitious,’ said Ross. ‘His star’s on the ascendant.’

‘True. But he stays on his own turf. Well, so far.’

‘The others?’

‘The Tenants and McGregors are way more insular. Unless Mason’s become part of their setup and I doubt that; it’s family members only. He’d have to marry in, it’s that tight-knit in both families.’

‘Okay but I still can’t help thinking it’s a hell of a coincidence. Mason gets out and someone gets murdered.’

‘Trouble is, this part of the city has a bit of an overlap. Tenants to the north, Jamieson’s crew to the south – around here’s a bit of a no-man’s-land.’

‘Bandit country.’

She stopped in the corridor. ‘Besides, Mason’s gone AWOL. He got out of the Bar-L okay, but apparently he never made it home to his beloved.’

‘A blonde tart named Lizzie Coughlin,’ Ross said. ‘Apparently she’s stayed faithful, turned up for weekly visits, played the supportive partner all these years.’

‘Any relation to Kenny Coughlin?’

‘His daughter.’

‘But Mason skipped the big reunion. Why? After all that time, where does he have to be that’s so important he doesn’t make it home? Unless someone got to him first?’

Ross pursed his lips.

‘Exactly my point. It’s suspicious.’

‘Does it have to be? He was never a class act from what I heard, so maybe he’s out drinking and whoring. Three and a half years is a long time to be celibate.’

‘You think he’s out partying?’ Wheeler thought about it. ‘Maybe, but he could be in more trouble than suffering a bit of a hangover.’

‘Well, wouldn’t you be out on the razz if you’d been locked up for years?’

‘I think he’d still want to see Lizzie, especially if he’s been celibate for all that time.’

‘True,’ agreed Ross. ‘What’s the point in paying for it when you can get it for free?’

Wheeler slapped his arm. ‘God, it’s a wonder a romantic like you is still single.’

Ross started up the stairs. ‘I think he’s involved – it’s too much of a coincidence. Mason gets out, then there’s this.’

‘Okay, so let’s go have a chat with the two boys, see if they give us anything. See if there’s a link from Mason to Gilmore.’ She pushed open the door to the CID suite.

‘Or to one of the other lot.’ He followed her.

‘That would be a result.’ She looked at Boyd. ‘The two boys ready?’

‘DCI Stewart’s going to interview them, says there’s another interview he wants you to do.’

She dumped her wet coat on the back of a chair; she’d learned in the army how to take orders. Her mobile rang. She recognised the number – her sister again. Wheeler heard it beep. A text. She glanced at it.

Why r u not answering? Jason’s not returning my calls. I’m SICK with worry. I think he’s in TROUBLE.

‘Problem?’ asked Ross.

‘My bloody sister’s paranoid about her son Jason, going off to Glasgow University and into the big bad world. We’ve never been close and now that he’s in Glasgow she pretty much wants me to stalk him.’

‘I take it you’re not one big happy family?’ Ross asked.

‘We’re not close.’ She turned away, unwilling to explain. Their father had died in a road accident when they were toddlers and their mother died when they were teenagers. After her mother’s death Wheeler had her first tattoo done, in gothic script between her shoulder blades – Vita non est vivere sed valere vita est (life is more than merely staying alive) – and enlisted in the army. Years later, after her last tour of yet another war-torn country, she’d celebrated leaving the army with a final tattoo, Omnia causa fiunt (everything happens for a reason). It was a fairytale she hoped would negate the reality of what she’d seen. Too much had happened for no reason. Meanwhile, Jo had met and married Simon Thorne, a Somerset farmer, and twenty years of polite distance between the sisters had followed, until now, when Jason had landed on Wheeler’s patch. Wheeler watched Ross leave the CID suite, then she deleted the text.

Chapter 4

Detective Chief Inspector Craig Stewart bumped into Ross in the corridor just outside one of the interview rooms. Stewart’s grey hair was shorn as usual, to a peak, and was still damp from the rain. His slate-grey eyes were shrewd. He wore a dark-blue suit, a pink-gold Rolex and a broad gold wedding band. He nodded to Ross. ‘I’ve a few minutes before my meeting with DI Wheeler. I’ve already interviewed the Wilson boy.’

‘Anything?’ asked Ross.

‘He was giving it the whole “I’m completely innocent” spiel. He should’ve thought that argument through before admitting that they were there to steal.’

‘He made a bad choice there,’ Ross muttered, ‘but do you think they’re in the frame for the murder?’

Stewart frowned. ‘I’m keeping an open mind. They’ve not a speck of blood on them and they have an alibi for last night, a Christmas party at the youth club. Apparently it’s all been uploaded onto Facebook; should be easy enough to check with the other kids who were there. We’re already on it. They’ve never been in trouble before and seem like okay kids, but you never know.’

‘Bloody bad luck if they just chanced on a dead body.’

‘Certainly it’s a coincidence.’

‘Confident?’

Stewart shrugged, ‘He seemed a bit fazed but not like you or I would be in their place at their age.’

‘Can’t imagine they did it – they’re surely not that stupid that they’d go back the next day and call it in. Then confess all to Robertson when he turned up.’